And the Band Plays On
by RoseUK
Summary: My personal Wylie/Vega therapy. ;) Set way in the future, because I've always been interested in the idea of memory and looking back.


**My personal Wylie/Vega therapy. Set way in the future, because I've always been interested in the idea of memory. (I have a similar-ish piece half-written for Jane and Lisbon, but I'll see how I get on with this one first. Thank you as ever to all those reading!)**

**And the Band Plays On**

She comes to visit at the strangest times: as he's eating a sandwich, watering the plants, putting on his favourite checked shirt in the morning. Popping into his mind unannounced and unexpected, but never unwelcome. A beloved old friend, come to say hello. He enjoys her company; it's a little lonely now that Suzy is gone and the nest is long empty. To think that at one time he had wished so desperately for her to go away, far, far away, and leave him alone in his misery! It had been easier to pretend she hadn't existed at all. But that was at the start, right after it happened, when she was with him day and night, clinging onto him so tightly, as if she could will herself back to life. He smiles faintly as he adjusts his tie in the mirror and combs a patch of whitish fair hair. She was exceptionally strong-willed, that girl.

Sometimes she's just an image, a flickering picture on the old TV set that is his mind now; other times she's talking animatedly - she was ever the spirited one - fragments of old conversation recorded and replayed ad infinitum, broken and scratchy from over-use. _Keep talking, it'll take even longer. _How funny that he can still hear her voice, those faint inflections of persistence and sweetness, even after all these years. _I crush League of Legends. _Still competitive, too, it seems. Sometimes she's there only for the briefest of moments: in profile, close-up, glossy pony-tail dancing; or sitting at her desk with perfect military posture, frowning slightly; or smiling widely, right at him, in a way that still gives him butterflies. How beautiful she was, and always would be.

During her longer visits, he wonders what would have become of her. He likes to imagine her as the head of a unit - major crimes, probably - and then of course head of the department, just like Abbot and Cho. He can't really picture her any older than 24; he gives her a different haircut, a no-nonsense bob, in the attempt, but her face is always young and her eyes are always shining with the brilliance of youth. He knows she would have been _outstanding_; she would have had time to temper her eagerness and tendency to jump the gun and... Guns. This is usually the point at which he stops his train of thought; those steel tracks lead through a scarred landscape of the past that still hurts, even now.

But when he is so inclined, he lets the memories in. He can see her more clearly that way. Nothing has really changed: he is still gazing across the room at her, some 50 years later. The shock of her passing has dulled, of course; the jagged edges smoothed and rounded off as time rumbles inexorably past, but time doesn't heal completely. They lied about that.

How strange to think how long ago it all was! To think that the stark immediacy of that present – with all its vivid colour and noise and flavour; an existence so sturdy, so tangible, so _real_ \- should one day be nothing but shifting memory and dream: a reality that was and is, all at once. Early on he could not bear to imagine the what-ifs - the loss of her was too shocking, too unreal – and later he had left her behind as he grew up and she did not, but now he is old it comforts him in some measure to wonder what might have been. It is a way of reshaping the past; rewriting the facts; righting injustice. He does not feel guilty about Suzy – not at all - because she was a true love, born of life, not memory, and she came later. Their life was happy and full, and he would not change it for anything. But youth is a time of possibility and wonder, of naivety and faith, and at that time in his life... It didn't matter that they had never been more than co-workers and friends – she had been the first, for him, and therefore special. It didn't matter that their time together lasted only months - when you are young, it is an eternity. And now, at the closing of his life, he wants to go back to that time when anything can happen, when the whole world lies before you, when you have the illusion of choice.

That's why his favourite memory of her - the one she brings him time and again, as a gift - is the night that Jane saved Abbot and Cho got promoted. A bright time, figuratively and literally. Colourful lanterns dangling haphazardly in an indigo sky and happy music filling the air - the perfect soundtrack to their laughter and smiles and the sense that _life is good_. When they were all together, a family complete. He settles back into his worn leather armchair and looks unseeingly at the TV murmuring quietly in front of him. _You wanna dance?_ In his arms, she is so close he can smell the lemony fragrance of her silky black hair; she is warm and beautiful and alive. The faint chill of a dim room; the fresh nip of a spring evening in another age. Slowly his eyelids droop; he can hear her sparkling voice raised in endearing challenge; he is flattered she enjoys teasing him. _What do you have to lose, Wylie?!_

His eyes fall shut.

_Okay, but you can't laugh..._

_No promises…_

They are together. And the band plays on.


End file.
